


Come Morning Light

by ImpossibleDreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleDreams/pseuds/ImpossibleDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two teenagers; both runaways, both drug addicts. Nineteen year old Sherlock Holmes, meets a girl who can nearly out deduce him but ultimately isn't as tough as she'd like others to believe. </p>
<p>Basically; drug taking, stealing, breaking and entering and very ooc Sherlock and probably other things that haven't occurred to me yet because my mind has gone blank having to write a summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

> I feel this should be a warning for anyone going to read this, I haven't written in years nor have I ever shared anything I've written before. This was going to be a flash back in another idea that came to me, but then I got caught up writing it and yeah... It's been edited, re-written and sat half abandoned more times I can count and I'm still not happy with it, but I doubt I ever will be. Oh and Sherlock is very un-Sherlock, but since I'm setting it way before anything I'm not beating myself up too much over it (if I keep saying it, I might believe it eventually).

Two teenagers; both runaways, both drug addicts. That is how Annabelle Edwards meets Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock noticed her the first time she entered the drug den he was currently residing in, his brain starting to become clear again and immediately entering overdrive trying to deduce the newcomer, his eyes raking over her appearance as she walked through and taking in every detail he could; quite short yet lithe, long slightly wavy auburn hair trailing half way down her back and over her shoulders, smudges of black eyeliner surrounding her eyes – too dark to discern what color they were, tight blue jeans disappearing into chunky black boots, zipped up black hoodie with a small black jacket swung over the top. Clearly took care of her appearance, probably a student here to drag a friend out his mind reasoned, definitely did not belong here the neatness of her clothes a stark contrast to the dilapidated building and its scruffy occupants – himself included. Though, as she made her way over and around the comatose people sprawled across the floor or huddled against the walls she neither looked scared or disgusted nor as though she was surveying them for signs of someone she knew, in fact she looked like she belonged and had come home after a long day merely deciding where to sit tonight.   
Sherlock continued watching as she made her way over to the empty space to the left of the horrible, old mattress he was lay on, he continued watching as she extracted a syringe complete with needle, and a small vial of a clear liquid from her pockets and set about preparing it to her liking.  
“Didn’t anybody ever teach you, that it is rude to stare?” He couldn’t place her accent as she spoke, too many variables, hints of Australian, and various European countries merging together.  
“Didn’t they teach you, that it’s rude to talk to strangers?” He found himself pleasantly surprised at the small giggle this seemed to draw from her.  
“You’ve been following me since I walked in, I figured if you were going to be dangerous you’ve had ample opportunity but no, you’re not interested in hurting me, you’re trying to figure me out.”  
“You… You don’t make sense.”  
“I was right then?”  
“Yes, but I…” He allowed his head to roll, from talking to the ceiling to facing her, intensifying his gaze and taking in the ease she measured out some of the clear liquid, clean fingernails not manicured but cut and filed quite short, silver ring around her thumb with two dolphins crossing over not covered with grime but shining, clear complexion and faint traces of a tan “… I can’t!” The frustration he felt at this was evident in his voice, almost growling the last words at her.  
“Try harder then, tell me what you see.” The syringe was carefully clasped between her lips as she fidgeted, slightly pushing her jeans down and exposing the top of her pants and thigh practically next to Sherlock’s head. He noted the previous needle marks littering the exposed skin as she plunged the needle into the muscle, injecting its contents before removing it to replace her jeans without attracting anyone else’s attention – not that even if she’d stood and started belting out the national anthem many people would have batted an eyelid at her.  
“Ketamine?”  
“Today’s choice, yes, but that is changing the subject. Answer me, mister.”  
His glaze returned to the crumbling ceiling,  
“At first I concluded you were a student, here to reclaim a friend from here but then you didn’t seem to be searching for anyone in particular and too relaxed for it to be your first time in here therefore probably frequented here before thus regular user, I saw for myself the previous track marks on your leg. Your appearance does contradict this theory though too cared for and well maintained, which suggests although you have been here before you have an actual home to go to so why not just use there instead of venturing here? Probably because you either still live with your parents or at least friends who would strongly disapprove of your little habit so you come here to escape and use. You’re not scared by the people in here, walking confidently over them, either you are used to them – supporting the idea you frequent this place or you have slight knowledge of how to defend yourself from unwanted advances, both as likely as each other as you had no qualms with striking up a conversation with myself and as evidenced when you exposed your thigh, you have a small frame but athletic. You’re lonely, but not actively trying to be so, trusting too, with the ease you’re talking to me I could be a mass murder looking for my next victim for all you would know.”  
Inhaling a deep breath Sherlock turned to face her, only to be met with an outstretched hand offering him a cigarette, discarded rizla, tobacco and filters between her crossed legs, his own zippo lighter resting on her knee as she took a drag off her own cigarette and met his stare with a smile. “As well as a half decent thief, it would appear. Was I correct?” Reclaiming his own lighter and accepting the cigarette.  
“Mostly. I don’t have a home to go to I’ve been living rough, so to speak, about a year now or so, my ‘well maintained’ appearance as you put it correlates to the thievery, people aren’t hard to pickpocket nor is it particularly hard to break into people’s houses whilst they’re away and freshen up unnoticed, I find it much more useful to be presentable then look like a tramp – no offense.” He waved his hand dismissively, all too well aware of his own deathly pale skin, gaunt face, greasy hair, stubble and un-kept clothes. “Aren’t we all lonely, only two things for certain in life you enter it alone and leave it alone? Trusting, probably as I’ve just told you all this, but also intrigued by the only non-comatose person in here, trying to work me out as I entered and clearly able to hold a decent conversation.” Now it was her turn to rake over him, taking in every inch of his sprawled out body on the mattress, green eyes meeting his own briefly before flitting to his skeletal hand raising the half smoked cigarette to his mouth and inhaling and smiling. “My turn now! Your drug of choice is cocaine, but you inject rather than insufflate want the effects quickly don’t you? Clearly a runaway, like myself, but slightly older probably been on the streets slightly longer… Hmm… This isn’t one of your chosen places to come, I’d wager you’ve been forced to move on from where you usually go probably because addicts don’t tend to like to be deduced just by looking at them, too many secrets to hide to appreciate the sheer brilliance of it but you can’t help yourself from doing it at everything. Probably an accomplished thief yourself, wouldn’t have lasted long if you weren’t but not a fan of the creature comforts – well-worn trainers either old or a lot of walking, clothes several sizes too big, filthy and in need of repairing or just chucking and you’re in dire need of a shower, shave and decent meal. Despite being practically skeletal, you can defend yourself as you’ve managed to get one of the more decent spots in here without objection and you like things you don’t understand; you have to make it make sense hence your interest in me and why I haven’t been told to fuck off. How’s that?”  
“Marginally impressive.”  
“Only marginally? I’ll have to do better in the future.”  
“In the future?” Sherlock shifted his gaze from the ceiling again to cock his eyebrow questioningly at her.  
“Aren’t I a puzzle you want to solve?”  
“I’m not interested in. That.”  
“And I’m not propositioning you, I’m something you want to solve and I find you fascinating. Surely a little intelligent conversation, without being told to fuck off or threatened, wouldn’t go a-miss occasionally?”  
“Did _he_ send you?” The disgust evident in his voice as the words were practically spat out.  
“He? Father Christmas? The Easter Bunny? Have to be a tad more specific.”   
“My _brother_.”  
“Oooh, running from brother dearest, are we? Alas, I can safely say, unless your brother happens to deal drugs, I’ve unknowingly pickpocketed him or broken into his house I’ve never met your brother and unless one of those is true or I can do the others I have no wish to meet him.”  
Sherlock glared at her, the joking way she said it doing nothing to help his rising temper but there were no obvious tells she was lying, before directing his eyes firmly back to the spot his spot on the ceiling. It would be a push even for Mycroft to have found him again already, yet alone found someone that would seize his attention this quickly both with looks and intelligence that seemed to rival his own. Drug addicts would do a lot for money but most of them were dull, unable to string a coherent sentence together and it would be low even for Mycroft to make someone an addict just to get to him. Thoughts continued swirling in his brain; the universe is rarely so lazy for coincidences but that didn’t mean they couldn’t happen, the pros and cons of whether this could be a scheme by Mycroft to get at him were all adding up yet he couldn’t say one way or another.  
He was only interrupted by another cigarette being waved in front of his vision, surprising even himself with his sudden rise to half sitting to wrap his lips around the filtered tip before pushing himself to sit fully up leaning against the wall behind and lighting it. A stolen glance at her and he saw the mask of intelligence and confidence gone, almost trusting eyes looking back at him and the strange feeling of wanting to protect her, make her smile and giggle again overcame him even though all logic dictated how utterly ridiculous that was but for the first time he pushed away the logical reasoning of his brain to lean in towards her.  
“Sherlock Holmes.”  
As he pulled back, still surveying her closely for any slight sign she might know the name and really be sent by Mycroft but failing to see any recognition at all, she playfully snatched his lighter from his hand before herself leaning close, breath ghosting the shell of his ear and sending tingles through his body.  
“Annabelle Edwards.”  
For the first time, despite the circumstances of the meeting, Sherlock felt normal. Annabelle hadn’t thought him a ‘freak’ for deducing her, she only playfully teased him not mocking and whilst she could nearly compete on intelligence, it wasn’t a competition unlike with Mycroft. She had already proclaimed the brilliance of what he was able to do, and called him fascinating not awkward or weird, clearly accepted the drug use instead of telling him how he was throwing his whole life away with it. Was this what everyone felt growing up, a form of acceptance from others instead of being judged and yelled at?   
The sudden movement of Annabelle trying to cram all her things back in pockets, drew his attention back to the present.  
“It’s getting late, or early, not too sure which. I better be going.”  
It felt like he’d only met her five minutes ago and now she was going, the protective feeling raised its head again, he didn’t want her to leave even though it was obvious she could manage alone he wanted to wrap his arms around her and ensure she was safe. ‘Caring is not an advantage’ Mycroft’s words were flooding his head, no caring wasn’t an advantage it was a weakness, it caused people to worry and panic, Sherlock Holmes did not do panicking he had complete control over situations no matter how high he may be, he had control over his emotions.   
“Oi!” She was stood looking back at him, how long had he been lost in his thoughts again? Something had obviously required his response, but he couldn’t place what might have been said. “I said: Are you coming Locki?”  
“Locki? Really?” The childish nickname only served to further heighten his desire to protect her, despite the image she projected to everyone; she was young, probably only around sixteen, three years younger than himself. The distaste over the nickname was a good cover for the happiness it really made him feel inside, the only time someone tried to abbreviate his name before they went with Sherly which currently sounded incredibly stupid in comparison.  
“Sherlock sounds like it would take more effort than I’m willing to exert to say when I’m high as a kite, something I do plan on trying to achieve occasionally, plus Locki sounds similar to Loki and I bet you can be quite mischievous, so it works accept it.” Childlike and flirty in the same breath, oddly they both worked coming from her. “So? Move ya’ butt and come find somewhere warm to sleep or freeze your bollocks off here, your choice.”   
Protectiveness won, even though she sounded like the one doing him a favour, he hadn’t realised how cold it actually was until she had mentioned it.  
“Fine, fine. I do quite like having my, as you so eloquently put it, bollocks, attached.”  
She smirked at him, clearly glad he had agreed and stood waiting whilst he gathered the few things he’d actually removed from pockets and following her across the rooms back out to the door, or what passed for a door on a derelict, old house.


End file.
